


Leap Of Faith (How the Mighty Fall)

by Proclaim_Thy_Warrior_Soul



Series: How The Mighty Fall [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint falls from high places;, Clint's got a potty mouth;, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Phil Coulson, crazy bad guys, exploding objects, slightly graphic mentions of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proclaim_Thy_Warrior_Soul/pseuds/Proclaim_Thy_Warrior_Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"One target unaccounted for, sir-" </p>
<p>"Barton, move!"</p>
<p>Clint didn't hesitate, reacting on instinct to the sound of Coulson's raised voice in his ear as the narrow perch beneath his booted feet disintegrated.</p>
<p>********</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. High Places

 

The day's call-out couldn't have happened at a less convenient time; or at least Clint thought so. With Sitwell, Hill and Fury having circles run around them by the WSC, and Natasha undercover somewhere in Prague, it'd left Clint, Coulson and two of the rookie juniors to hold off the latest shenanigans from the Villain Of The Week... It was clear from the very start that odds hadn't been stacked far in their favour.

 

Coating the summer air with the reek of burning rubber, the patent black S.H.I.E.L.D van had barely screeched to a halt in the streets of lower Manhattan before Agent Phil Coulson was out, I.D in hand, as he assumed charge of the situation from the New York Police Department despite their vehement protests. His first order was for Clint to hit higher ground. "We're going to need eyes up top. Wait for my confirmation, Hawkeye."

 

"Yes, sir." With a sloppy salute Clint shouldered his gear and headed straight for the building with the best sight lines, mouth turned up in a lopsided grin.

 

Within three minutes Clint was in position, bow out and arrow nocked as he sucked in a calming breath and held it, drawing on his sniper-borne focus as he settled into place. It was surprisingly simple to get a lock on the cause of panic from the emptying streets below - a twenty-something, greasy-haired kid waving a large, beaten suitcase around whilst bellowing at the top of his lungs about science experiments, government conspiracies, and terrorism. Clint spied Coulson and the juniors from the corner of his eye, watching as they created a tight perimeter around "buckets-of-crazy" and strategically moved in. Barton couldn't help but wonder why the local PD hadn’t managed to handle this one without them.

 

His unspoken question answered itself less than a heartbeat later as the young man's suitcase flew open with the flick of a finger, releasing a clatter of large, plate-sized metal discs to the floor. A hushed silence fell over the remaining crowd of onlookers, Coulson's steady voice in his ear ordering the team to remain ready and in position.

 

Things, quite naturally, went downhill from there.

 

The first sign something was seriously wrong was the shrill bark of laughter from their target, his head thrown back to the sunlit sky. The eerie sound carried to Clint's position and raised the hairs on the back of his neck, sending an ominous chill down his spine. If ever there was an omen that the proverbial shit was about to hit the fan, that was the only warning Clint needed. The archer adjusted position minutely and refocused his gaze on the young man, unwilling to let the Oscar-worthy performance distract him and ready to release the kill-shot the instant Coulson’s order came.

 

The discs of metal chose that moment to start vibrating, violently shifting from their static position to hover unsteadily above the ground.

 

"Coulson..."

 

_"Negative, Hawkeye. Wait for my signal."_

 

More than confident in his handler's abilities, Clint stifled the sense of unease settling in the pit of his stomach, keen eyes flicking between the now stationary young man and the hovering metal.

 

_"Have NYPD move all civilians back. I want a two-hundred foot perimeter and I want it ten minutes ago."_ The archer couldn't hold back his smirk at the sound of Coulson's commanding voice through the comms, grateful that Phil seemed to be picking up on the sense of looming disaster permeating the air just as easily as he was.

 

With little warning the first of the metal discs shot away from position, travelling almost too quick for Clint to follow. "Woah, not good. Sir?"

 

_"Keep eyes on that metal, Barton. I'll cover the Stark wannabe."_

 

"Affirmative." The 'Stark wannabe' was currently having a conversation with himself, it seemed. "Permission to shoot the Frisbee, sir?" Scanning the area, Clint spotted the rogue disc as it slowed, hovering sixty feet above ground level, which conveniently put it a good forty feet below his current position.

 

_"Frisbee, Barton?"_

 

"Uh, yeah... What else would you call them, sir? They're round and they fly through the air." _Enough said._

 

_"We'll discuss your innate urge to name things later, shall we?"_ Clint was certain he heard a chuckle across the comms but knew Phil would neither confirm nor deny if he called him on it. _"Permission granted to shoot the 'Frisbee'. And try not to accidentally hit anyone in uniform, will you? We've upset NYPD enough for one day, I think."_

 

"Sure thing, boss." Taking aim, Clint loosed the arrow before the disc could change position, hitting it dead centre.

 

The explosion and resulting 360 degree shockwave was unexpected enough to knock him flat on his ass, ears ringing.

 

" _Damn..."_

 

_"Hawkeye, report."_

 

Who knew flying, silver discs of metal could be so dangerous? Whatever happened to the good ol' days when people used knives and guns to cause chaos? That's what Clint wanted to know. Instead they had to put up with alien sea creatures, beings from alternate planes of reality, and megalomaniacal scientists that made Frisbees into bombs.

 

"Alive and kickin', sir." Climbing gingerly to his feet, Clint brushed dust and brick from his pants. "No injuries to report," he added as an afterthought, knowing it'd be the next question out of his handler as he returned to his original position; bow clutched firmly between his fingers.

 

_"Sir,"_ a new voice joined them on comms. _"The metal...things? They're all on the move."_ Clint recognised the timid voice as that of the curly-haired rookie he'd literally bumped straight into a few hours earlier. Short and skinny with a nervous twitch under his left eye, Clint couldn't help but wonder how desperate S.H.I.E.L.D had to be for recruits if this was supposed to be one of their most promising. The kid had practically choked on his own tongue trying to apologise for walking into Clint, and he hadn't even been the one at fault.

 

_"Acknowledged, Agent Bryant,"_ was Coulson's even reply. _"Keep focus on the target, if you will."_

 

With the discs now all in the air, Clint could count at least twenty - which was nineteen more than he was strictly comfortable with. "Switching to EMP, sir. Not sure I feel like blowing up all of Manhattan today. I'm hoping the EMP will knock 'em out."

 

_"Acknowledged; preparing to move in on the target in thirty seconds."_ Clint knew that Coulson wouldn't make his move until he was certain everything was in place; that nothing unexpected could derail his plan too spectacularly and anything that did go wrong could easily be worked around.

 

"Roger that."

 

As Clint watched, half of the discs matched the path of the original one, hitting sixty feet and hovering with seemingly no urgency. The remaining half separated and scattered in every possible direction, no obvious pattern discernible. "Sneaky bastards..."

 

_"Get that perimeter moved back to four-hundred feet,_ now _. Team, we move in on five. On my count; ready?"_

 

Clint tuned them out, concentrating fully on his own task. With the realisation that the Frisbees were explosive, the last thing he needed was them taking out Coulson and the team on the ground. Without hesitation Clint fired, the EMP arrow striking true as ten disabled sentient Frisbees dropped from the sky.

 

"Heads up, sir; EMP's a go. Ten down."

 

_"Copy that."_

 

Clint fired a second and third arrow in quick succession, taking down a further scattered six, when a sharp blow to his shoulder sent him reeling forwards. " _Sonofa_ -" Only balance honed from years as a circus brat kept him from toppling from the roof of the building as a rogue Frisbee attacked. A follow up blow to the other side of his head knocked him straight over the edge anyway.

 

Not allowing himself the time to panic, Hawkeye twisted gracefully mid-air, latching onto a narrow ledge twenty feet below his original position with the fingers of one hand. Clint had to blink rapidly to clear his vision as he sought the source of his attack, hanging precariously from his fingertips as his boots scrabbled desperately for a foothold. A glint of silver from the corner of his eye was all the warning he had before the metal disc struck again, the outer edge painfully sharp as it cut into his armoured vest and sliced easily through the first few layers of skin at his shoulder before retreating. Using the bow in his free hand as a baton, Clint managed to deflect the next attack and sent the metal careening into the wall a storey below him, belatedly realising his mistake. " _Shit, shit, shit..._ "

 

The shockwave from the explosion helped propel the archer up onto the narrow ledge and to momentary safety.

 

_"Barton,_ report _!"_ Coulson's voice over the comms was tense, concern clear in his demand for a response. Stealing a moment to catch his breath, Clint checked the damage to his vest before answering.

 

"Still standing, sir. Three targets remaining."

 

He prayed the senior agent wouldn't challenge him on his current state of health, the warm trail of blood dripping from the cut at the side of his head and the uncomfortable tackiness around the shoulder of his vest not something he could play ignorant to for long. Thankfully no further enquiries came.

 

The remaining metal discs chose that moment to converge on Clint from different directions all at once, clearly sentient enough to pick the archer out as their greatest threat. Drawing his bow, careful to keep his balance on the narrow ledge, Clint nocked and fired, hitting two with his EMP arrow as they crossed paths before the third rose from sight faster than even he could track.

 

_Damn it_. "One target unaccounted for, sir-"

 

_"Barton, move!"_

 

Clint didn't hesitate, reacting on instinct to the sound of Coulson's raised voice in his ear as the narrow perch beneath his booted feet disintegrated. Hooking his recurve and quiver over one shoulder he launched himself into an adrenaline-fuelled free-fall, the only viable option available as the remaining sentient frisbee attempted to take him out with its final, kamikaze blow.

 

The concussive wave from the explosion above sent Clint careening into the wall as he tried desperately to grab hold of something, _anything_ , to slow his momentum, succeeding only in tearing his fingernails to shreds and skinning the arm without his bracer from shoulder to elbow in the process. " _Fuck!"_

 

A little under sixty feet from the ground the archer stubbornly ignored the concrete floor rushing up to greet him at an alarming pace. Clint forced his brain to block out the sound of his handler's worried voice in his ear, focusing his attention on the scenery zooming past in his peripheral and on remaining as calm as humanly possible. If he allowed himself to listen to Coulson and the panicked chatter on the comms from the rest of the team he was likely to freak out and that would only lead to him crashing and burning spectacularly - quite literally in this case.

 

Clint had fallen from heights before; too many times to count. The goal was to land feet first, concentrating the force of impact on a smaller area so his feet and legs could absorb the brunt of it. It was highly likely to result in a broken leg - or two - but broken bones were far more preferable than death.

 

A swift glance at the ground had Clint's heart in his throat. He was eighty percent certain he was about to die a painful and horrific death as he plummeted closer and closer to the concrete with each passing breath. Shoving the thought away to re-visit at a later date - quite likely _never_ \- the archer willed himself to relax. Too much tension in his body would only transfer force more directly to his vital organs upon landing and Clint liked his organs just the way they were, _thank you very much_.

 

With one final inhale and a muttered prayer under his breath, Clint prepared his body for the rough landing, unhooking his bow and quiver and launching them as far from him as possible. There was no escaping it - this was going to hurt like a bitch and he didn't need landing on his prized weapon to make things a thousand times worse – or even more painful.

 

Pointing his toes with the intent to land on the balls of his feet, Clint fought the urge to close his eyes as he finally hit the ground, his bent knees and considerable momentum jerking him forwards. Throwing up both arms to protect his head and neck, Clint compensated by forcing his body into a roll, the world spinning violently as he flipped over and over and over in an uncoordinated flailing of limbs.

 

It felt like an age had passed before Clint eventually rolled to a stop facedown on the warm concrete.

 

***A*V*E*N*G*E*R*S***


	2. Hard Landings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'m good," was his instinctive reply, but Clint could barely raise his voice loud enough to be heard this time, the effort filling his mouth with saliva as the nausea reared its ugly head.

For a while, the only sound audible was the laboured rasp of Clint's own breathing; the jackhammer pounding of his heart within the confines of his chest. The adrenaline overload was making it difficult for Clint to concentrate, limbs twitching against his will as he sucked in a great lungful of air; eyes squeezed shut to stave off the dizziness and nausea from his sudden stop. It took a long few moments for a familiar voice to filter in through the white noise that filled his head.

 

"Harrison, keep everyone back behind that perimeter. Bryant, I need a med team here on standby, now. _Move!_ " There was the soft tread of approaching footsteps but they slowed to a stop before they reached his side. " _Jesus._.. Barton?"

 

The sound of Coulson's tentative voice finally broke through the fog enshrouding the archer's brain, encouraging him to stir with a grunt. "Gimme a sec, sir..." His words were slurred and coloured with a liberal dose of pain but they were clear enough to warrant a huge sigh of relief from his handler's direction.

 

"How bad?" It was a question Clint was putting off discovering the answer to. The pain had slowly been creeping into his awareness as the adrenaline and shaking had dissipated, growing steadily worse as the seconds ticked by.

 

"'m good," was his instinctive reply, but Clint could barely raise his voice loud enough to be heard this time, the effort filling his mouth with saliva as the nausea further reared its ugly head. He took a deep, grating breath and swallowed, forcing his brain to catalogue the list of his injuries to keep himself alert. While his entire body felt like - and most likely resembled - one giant bruise, Clint knew with certainty that he'd gotten off lightly despite his discomfort.

 

If he concentrated hard enough, the level of pain fluctuated - from ' _shit,_ that hurt,' to ' _holymotheroffreakin'hell'_. Right then the greatest source of his discomfort was his arm. Clint's contact with the building during his fall had scraped away several layers of skin from shoulder to elbow, the exposed nerve endings of his left arm making their presence known in excruciating detail each time he so much as twitched a muscle. Without the need to open his eyes he could tell the wound was bleeding freely, the taint of copper hitting his lungs with each inhale. Clint was also aware of an intense burn radiating from his right foot - from the tip of his toes to his ankle; a bone-deep throb that pulsed in time with each beat of his heart and which lead him to suspect a fracture. _That_ pain was familiar, one he could ignore to a certain extent, but added on top of the slice to his shoulder from the Frisbee, the hefty knock to his skull, and the numerous cuts and scrapes from touching down on the unforgiving concrete...well, he was feeling pretty much like shit. _Could be worse_ , his brain supplied. Much worse.

 

"About a seven..." Clint answered finally, voice rough as he responded to Coulson's question after a time deliberating. "Maybe an eight."

 

It hurt. No, screw that; It hurt a _lot_ , but it wasn't the worst pain he'd ever been in. Not by a long shot.

 

Risking the return of the nausea, Clint opened his eyes and lifted his head ever so slowly from the cushion of his arms. He had to blink several times to clear his blurred vision but was grateful when the queasiness stayed at a tolerable level. Coulson seemed to sense that he was ready to move, inching closer as if approaching a dangerous, wounded animal. Clint snorted at the concept, earning himself a concerned frown from his handler.

 

"Do you need a hand? Or shall I call-"

 

"No! No, 'm good. Just..." Counting slowly to ten, Clint levered himself up on his good arm, pausing to catch his breath as he awakened a burst of pain from his movement. "I just...gimme a minute..."

 

Coulson forced himself to stand back; to not interfere despite the obvious difficulty his charge was having. A tiny part of him was grinning like a proud parent watching their kid get straight back up on their bike after a nasty fall. The more sensible part of him, the part that had just witnessed his best agent fall from a one-hundred foot building, was resolutely cursing one Clinton Francis Barton for being such a stubborn, pig-headed sonofabitch and, in the same breath, thanking every deity known to man, woman, and beast that there appeared to be no obvious spinal injuries to contend with.

 

Clint made it to his knees, arms trembling, before Phil sighed and moved in to help, unable to watch Barton struggle a moment longer. "It's either me or one of the paramedics," he offered in a quiet voice at Clint's disgruntled frown. "Your choice." Clint rolled his eyes in acquiescence before offering the barest of smiles, allowing Phil to support his weight as he clambered to his full height. Only a barely stifled groan gave away that he was hurting as he held his bad foot off the floor.

 

Once upright Clint took a few moments to orient himself, leaning heavily against Phil and taking in his surroundings as he tried to get his brain back on track. "We get 'im, boss?" Coulson didn't answer, distracted by the red dripping down the younger man's arm; from the back of his vest; from a gash to the side of his head. Clint, quite literally, was a bloody mess.

 

"Did you hit your head on the way down, agent?"

 

"Huh?" The question seemed to take a moment to sink in. That, alongside the glazed look in his asset's eyes, caused Phil to suspect the possibility of a concussion. Not that he could get Barton to remain still for long enough to ascertain anything for certain. "Nope, not on the way down," Clint finally offered unhelpfully. "Where's my bow?"

 

Phil hummed, unconvinced. "Your health is far more important than your bow, Barton; contrary to your own ridiculous belief. Come on, the paramedics are going to take a look at you." The last thing Coulson needed was Clint dying from an undiagnosed bleed on the brain or something equally as dangerous. He'd never forgive himself.

 

With a put out sigh Clint reluctantly complied, knowing full well that arguing would get him nowhere and that he wasn't steady enough on his feet to attempt an escape, particularly when Coulson was in mother hen mode. Despite the ridiculousness of the thought, Clint was glad that Phil knew him well enough to not have allowed the paramedics over to crowd around him. Even though it meant he now had to hobble unsteadily on one foot towards the ambulance across the street whilst using his handler's arm as a makeshift crutch, Clint felt all the better for it. Even if it did hurt like a bitch.

 

The Chief of Police spotted the pair as they reached their intended destination, heading towards them whilst leading his cuffed prisoner and a posse of officers in his wake. "Three o' clock," Clint warned softly under his breath, smirking as Phil refused to stop.

 

"Keep moving, Barton."

 

"Excuse me, Agent? A moment of your time, please," the Chief politely demanded as he neared, although his body language hinted that he was feeling anything but polite.

 

Clint's muttered, "Just give me the word, boss," and resulting glare in the officer's direction was the final straw for Phil. With a loud knock on the rear of the bus, he all but pushed his charge at the paramedic as he appeared from around the side. "Deal with this one, please."

 

"I could take him..."

 

"Shut it, Barton." To the paramedic he added with a cool smile, "I think you'll find Agent Barton is overdue his tetanus shot. If you'd be so inclined?"

 

Coulson ignored the outraged splutter from Clint and perfected his stoic 'Agent' face before turning to face NYPD's Chief of Police, scanning the man's uniform for his name tag. "What can I do for you, Chief Williams?"

 

The balding, rotund man didn't answer at first, his face turning a deep shade of purple as his anger bubbled to the surface. Moving his docile, securely cuffed prisoner to stand between them in an obvious display of cowardice, the Chief of Police thrust a finger in Couson's face. "I _demand_ that you release this boy at once."

 

Phil simply offered a bland smile at the outrageous suggestion. "I'm afraid that won't be possible at this time. As you are aware, Martin will be taken into S.H.I.E.L.D custody where he'll be questioned and charged with-"

 

" _SHIELD_? Who the hell are SHIELD and what gives them the right to storm in here and take over _my_ city?" The Chief's voice grew louder as he pushed the boy out of the way and moved in closer to Phil, his posse of uniforms crowding in to back up the man they believed to be in charge. "I'll have you know that this is _my_ jurisdiction, _my_ crime scene, and _my_ -"

 

"Yes, _your_ step-son. We are fully aware of the fact," Coulson informed the furious man politely, one eyebrow raised. "Or were you somehow hoping this unfortunate piece of information would remain undisclosed, Chief Williams?" The only response was a stunned silence, the man's mouth gaping like a stranded fish as his men shifted uncomfortably behind him.

 

Clint kept a close eye on the battle of wills from his perch at the back of the ambulance whilst the paramedic worked, dabbing at the cut to the side of his head with a damp piece of gauze. The seated position was already playing havoc with the archer's sore and aching body, the muscles in his back locking up as the adrenaline rush dissipated, but Clint had distractedly declined the offer of a gurney in his determination to keep an eye - and both ears - on Coulson, ready for action should the situation call for it. It wasn’t that Clint thought Phil couldn't handle himself, because, _come on_. Coulson was a BAMF; everyone knew that. Clint was simply struggling to keep a lid on his protective streak since the man - _his best friend_ \- had died and then returned from the dead only a few short months back.

 

Clint shifted uncomfortably, gritting his teeth as the motion jarred his injured foot. He could feel the persistent thudding of his heart in his chest - a side-effect of the excess epinephrine still flooding his system, he knew, but it was making it hard to stand down; harder still to control the hyper-vigilance, his brain remaining on high alert for any possible threat. All too often Clint found his eyes drawn from the familiar, suited outline of Coulson to the eerily silent, unknown variable that was Martin Williams.

 

From a distance the kid looked like the average, everyday college student - geeky, a little scruffy but ultimately harmless. Up close the illusion shattered. Clint felt his skin crawl with distaste.

 

There was something about the Chief's step-son that set the archer's teeth on edge. The feeling could've been due to the fact that he'd almost died at the hands of one of the kid's shitty inventions, but Clint wasn't completely convinced. While Coulson may have been joking when he'd labelled the boy as a 'Tony Stark wannabe', the truth of the matter was that Martin clearly _was_ smart - genius-level smart, perhaps, if his tech was anything to go by - but even so, he wasn't quite right in the head. There was a glint in his eyes that hinted at danger - _madness_ \- and despite him standing at step-daddy's side like a good little soldier, hands cuffed securely in front of him, Clint could see his dark brown eyes roaming his immediate surroundings as if analysing a stream of unseen data.

 

The paramedic chose that moment to block Clint's view of Coulson and the others whilst trying to check for a concussion, fuelling the fire to Clint's quickly declining mood. "Look at the light for me, please?" Clint instinctively batted the young man's hand away before he could even think to shine the penlight anywhere near him.

 

"You shine that thing in my face and I won't be held accountable for my actions," the S.H.I.E.L.D agent warned with a low growl. The EMT sighed, obviously used to working with stubborn patients, but he quickly capitulated, putting the torch away.

 

"Fine. I can't do much with your arm until you're at the hospital, I'm afraid. If I cover it, there's a high risk of infection so I'll have to leave it open to the air." He paused, waiting for acknowledgement, but Clint had his focus elsewhere. "I'm going to need to take a look at your ankle though, buddy." Clint, still only half listening, nodded, his attention straight back on the Williams kid. The EMT rolled his eyes and knelt down to assess the injured limb with a sigh.

 

As if he could feel Barton's gaze, Martin Williams shifted to angle himself in front of Coulson, blocking the agent from Clint's view. He met Clint's eyes with a smirk as he started a monotonous litany of nonsense under his breath. Clint felt his hackles rising, the urge to limp over there and wipe the smug look off the kid's face a powerful one.

 

"I'm going to need you to take your boot off for me, sir. I need to see how bad the swelling is and I can't do that with your footwear still on."

 

Clint didn't bother holding back on his frustrated sigh as his attention was drawn away from his handler once more. The entire situation had him on edge and the pain was making him irritable. "Look, do we really need to do this right now? Just stick a damn band aid on it and I'll be out of your hair." Sitting idle whilst being fussed over - particularly by medical - was one of Clint's most loathed tasks. Out on a mission, inactivity was a completely different story. With his entire focus on his target, Barton could outwait the Grim Reaper himself if the mission called for it. But here, _now_ , while everything within him whispered that danger was still nearby, it was too much.

 

"Sir, you just fell from the top of a building. While it may be slightly impressive that you're still alive, I need to check you over to make sure you're still in one piece. Just let me do my job, okay?"

 

"No."

 

The look of confusion on the young paramedic's face would have been amusing had it been under different circumstances. " _What?_ "

 

"I said _no_. I don't need you poking and prodding and getting in my face. Am I making myself clear?" Clint answered in what he thought was a perfectly reasonable tone. He didn't even raise his voice. Score one for him; Coulson would be so proud.

 

"You're...are you seriously refusing treatment?"

 

Clint spent an embarrassingly long moment struggling to his feet, forcing the EMT to back away in a hurry with a dangerous glare. "Yeah, that's me. I'll sign your disclaimer or whatever you need, but right now I've got a job to do, too. Excuse me." Without another word Clint stumbled away to rejoin Coulson's side, glad his boot offered a modicum of support to his injured ankle but gritting his teeth all the same.

 

It took a Bruce Banner level of control to stand so close to the Williams kid and not succumb to the urge to break his face. _Repeatedly_. Martin seemed able to read his mind on that one, yet where most sane people would flee the country with their tail tucked between their legs at the thought of the deadly assassin out for their blood, his smirk only grew wider. Clint ignored the boy and forced his way between Martin and Coulson, deciding it was well worth the resulting stab of pain by purposefully knocking into the kid before turning to speak in his handler's ear. "Sir, a moment?"

 

Phil allowed the Chief of Police to finish his current tangent of argumentative persuasion whilst only half listening. There was only so many times he could hear variations of "let my boy go, _or else_ ," before his patience started to wear thin. Clint's appearance at his shoulder offered a welcome respite and yet only a small amount of relief. "You'll have to excuse me one moment, please, gentlemen," he politely interrupted before Chief Williams could start over. The man looked more than a little offended at having been cut off.

 

Phil offered a patent blank smile before turning his back on the lynch mob, focussing his attention on his limping and, somewhat unsurprisingly, still bleeding colleague as they moved away from the small crowd. "Barton, I vaguely recall ordering you to get patched up. If this is your version of 'patched up' then you and I need to work on your language skills and I think I need to have a very stern chat with the paramedic."

 

Clint offered no protest to his handler's dry observation, instead remaining stoically silent, which was an entirely unnatural state for the young man. Sarcasm and snark were second nature to the agent no matter the situation, much to everyone's vexation. Keeping him silent was usually a full-time mission.

 

Phil frowned, his concern growing as he studied the younger man's pain-filled gait, Clint's complexion pale and clammy; jaw clenched against the obvious discomfort he was in. It went against every instinct ingrained in him to not forcibly drag his pain-in-the-ass asset back over to the ambulance and order him to accept much-needed medical attention, but Phil knew he'd have greater success in conversing with a brick wall.

 

Barton eventually pulled them to a stop, a gently restraining hand on his wrist once they were far enough away not to be overheard. Phil noticed that the archer strategically positioned himself where he could keep a clear view of his surroundings, Martin Williams and the Chief of Police in particular. Clint's brow furrowed as he struggled to voice what was troubling him, but Coulson's own keen eyes spotted that his gaze kept travelling over to the group behind him. It didn't take a degree in rocket science to put two and two together and come up with four. "Clint..."

 

At the sound of his name Barton tensed, eyes glued to the floor as he dropped Phil's arm like he'd been slapped. Coulson bit back a curse at the reaction that was, quite thankfully, occurring less often these days but still more often than he'd like to admit, finding himself wishing once again that he could bring that damned Alpha back from the dead just so he could kill the evil bastard once more. Slowly and twice as painfully.

 

Pushing the painful memories aside, Phil took a deep breath to slow his racing heart and forced his fists to unclench from at his sides. There was no point getting worked up over things that he had no control over. The Alpha _was_ dead – he’d made certain of that - and, with his help, Clint was going to recover fully. There was no question about it.

 

"Hey, what's on your mind?" With Clint's sometimes PTSD-like reactions to his presence, his voice, Phil had discovered that his best course of action was to stay on-script. The more like 'Agent Phil Coulson' he sounded, the quicker Barton could usually pull himself back together. ‘Talk to me.’

 

Clint sucked in a gasp of air, holding it in his lungs for a few precious seconds before exhaling slowly and finally meeting Phil's eyes. "Sorry, sir. That Martin kid gives me the creeps."

 

Phil offered a solemn nod of agreement, choosing to ignore the almost-hidden tremor in his agent's voice. "Same here. The sooner we take him into custody the better for everyone involved."

 

Clint's eyes travelled back to the Chief of Police, Franklin Williams. "I'm not sure it'll be as easy as that, boss." The man in question was currently conferring with his associates, his voice a low, angry hum that carried across the distance. His step-son was fidgeting at the outer edge of their circle, cuffed hands dancing across the hem of his jacket, fingers fiddling with the metallic buttons.

 

"Leave Chief Williams to me, Barton. He'll soon regret ever attempting to use his status as an excuse for his son's actions." Clint cracked a small grin at that one. Pissing Phil Coulson off was a universally bad idea, the most direct route to misfortune known to man, beast and God alike. _Just ask Loki_...

 

Harrison's voice came over the comms, abruptly interrupting Clint's tangent of thought. Coulson smiled at him affectionately before turning to walk away, one hand at his ear as he dealt with the junior's likely pointless enquiry. Clint felt his eyes drawn back to Martin against his will, swallowing against the sudden dryness of his throat.

 

The kid matched his gaze with a confident smirk, eyes glittering with barely concealed contempt. Clint kept his face clear of all emotion, unwilling to let Williams see the anger that simmered just beneath the surface. Martin seemed to sense it anyway, his grin growing wider. The boy opened his mouth, lips forming a word that made Clint's heart stop dead in his chest.

 

 _"Boom_."

 

Realising that Martin was no longer empty-handed, Clint could only watch from too far away as he calmly dropped to a squat on his knees, releasing a small handful of silver buttons that went rolling straight for Coulson.

 

_No!_

 

Clint used the split second where his heart forgot to beat to calculate trajectories, speeds and distances, already knowing that it would be a close call; too close, maybe. Without wasting another precious second, Clint launched himself at his handler, studiously ignoring the sensation of bone grinding against bone as his ankle protested the sudden movement. With no means to explain his actions, Barton could only hope that Phil wouldn't react too poorly to being thrown to the floor beneath his asset's weight.

 

From his peripheral Clint kept track of the buttons, the seemingly harmless objects instilling an edge of terror in the assassin's heart as they rolled closer, building momentum. From anyone else, Clint would have brushed the threat off as bravado, nothing more than empty words, but from the kid insane enough to make dangerously explosive Frisbees he wasn't willing to take any chances; not when it came to Coulson's life. He'd only just got the man back. He wasn't willing to lose him again so soon.

 

Phil went down hard beneath him, instinctively attempting to counter the attack but Clint put everything he had into keeping the man down and covered with his own body, using every ounce of strength and every pound of muscle to his full advantage.

 

Coulson was strong, but Clint would always be stronger.

 

The explosion, when it came a heartbeat later, was thankfully less powerful than that of an exploding Frisbee, but still enough to force the air from Clint's lungs as he shielded Coulson beneath him. The shockwave sent heat, debris and dust, gravel and shrapnel in every direction, peppering the bare skin of his arms, the back of his neck and his unprotected head. Stifling the grunts of discomfort as best as he could, Clint was unprepared for the second explosion an instant later, the searing heat crashing into him like a solid brick wall and sending his world into a haze of white noise and grey shadows.

 

Fighting the pull of unconsciousness, Clint forced his rebellious body into action; one hand groping blindly for the gun he hoped was still at Coulson's hip. Blood-slicked fingers and trembling muscles made his actions clumsy, the archer's growl of frustration echoing strangely past the ringing in his head, until eventually he found what he was looking for.

 

Except Phil chose that moment to reverse their positions, one foot finding leverage on solid ground before pushing Clint onto his back. Confident fingers snatched the gun from his wavering grasp, the safety off within the space of a heartbeat, the weapon's fierce bark as loud as an unexpected slap to the face.

 

Clint managed to keep one eye open long enough to absorb the sight of a very dead Martin Williams, one hand clutching his stepfather's stolen weapon as he fell gracelessly to the cold floor, before he felt safe enough to give into the unrelenting pull of unconsciousness, Coulson's weight pressing him firmly to the ground.

 

TBC...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear your thoughts :)


	3. And A Few Home Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil permitted a small smile to reach his face as he stopped outside the door to Barton's room. "I'm in one piece, Nick. Clint saw to that, the reckless sonofabitch." Fighting the urge to run a hand through his hair, Coulson sighed as he opened the door and stepped through into the archer's room. "Although I think you owe me a -- damn it!"
> 
> "Coulson?"
> 
> "Nick, I'll call you back." Phil hung up without another word, taking in the sight of Barton's empty bed with a huff of concern.

Phil Coulson eyed his dishevelled appearance in the rest room mirror with an air of disdain whilst biting back a tired sigh with practised ease. Pulling his handkerchief from an inside pocket, the senior agent rinsed it under the tap before attempting to wipe away the layers of dirt and grime still covering him.

It was a lost cause. Phil knew this, but he also knew that he required something to keep his hands busy so they'd maybe stop shaking; some inane distraction to help keep his mind from picturing his asset - bloodied, bruised and unconscious on the cold concrete. Clint had only been in that position because he'd put himself between Phil and imminent danger without a thought for his own well-being.

Again.

Swallowing thickly, Phil dropped the soiled cloth in the sink and gave up on his efforts to make himself presentable, choosing to splash cold water on his face instead.

*

_Phil had left Barton's bedside for the first time in... Well, he'd lost track of the actual hours. At least two, maybe even three. After the dust had settled in Manhattan, it felt like someone had hit the fast-forward button. The EMT's had Barton loaded into the back of the ambulance in record time, a second removing the body of Martin Williams as Coulson had arranged for the detainment of the Chief of Police pending further questioning. Reluctant to abandon the scene entirely, Phil had been relieved to see the familiar bald head of his good friend, Jasper Sitwell. The agent took control of the scene and sent Coulson on his way, demanding that he get himself checked over whilst he was at the hospital. Phil hadn't bothered to explain that barely any of the blood on his suit was his own._

_Upon arriving at the New York Downtown Hospital, Phil had done little except wait, brushing off the receptionist's concern about his crumpled, bloodied appearance with a flash of his I.D and the demand for an update on Barton. They'd moved him temporarily to the family waiting room before a young nurse chaperoned him to Clint's bedside and there he'd stayed._

_Clint was going to be fine, the doctors assured him. Had done several times, in fact, but Phil had to keep reminding himself; was having trouble reconciling the sight of his pain-in-the-ass, full of life asset with the pale, lifeless body currently laying in the hospital bed down the hall._

_The doctors were keeping Clint under light sedation whilst the cyclobenzaprine got to work on relaxing the abused muscles in his back from the fall. The broken ankle had already been set and put into plaster, whilst his sprained knee had been iced and the road rash to his arm thoroughly cleaned and disinfected alongside the multitude of other cuts, scrapes and minor burns. Coulson thanked every god ever known that Clint's close proximity to the explosions had caused little permanent damage. The archer would be out of commission with his broken ankle for the next few months at least, and on strict bed rest for as long as possible (though Phil didn’t hold out much hope for that one), but that was a small price to pay for walking away from a hundred-foot fall and two consecutive explosions. A small price, indeed._

_By the time the doctor had finished updating him on Clint’s condition and had excused himself from the room, Phil had been struggling to stay awake, the day's events hitting him with a wave of exhaustion. Unwilling to allow himself the luxury of sleep he'd climbed slowly to his feet and, with a final glance at his charge, left for the rest room in an attempt to shake the cobwebs away._

*

Phil was distracted from his thoughts by the shrill chirp of his cell phone from his jacket pocket. With a final glance in the mirror he took a deep breath and pulled himself together, answering his phone on the fourth ring as he exited the rest room and walked along the hallway. “Coulson.”

“Phil.” It was the Director.

“Sir.” Coulson used the pregnant pause that followed to gather his thoughts. Now that he had the time to think of it, Phil remembered that Sitwell and Hill had been locked in with Fury and the WSC that morning for talks on a suspected breach of security at the Hub. “Is everything okay?”

“How’re you holding up, Phil? Your boy re-joined us in the land of the living yet?”

So it was Nick he was talking to, who, for the time being, was not the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. but simply his friend. Phil was glad.

“He’s still sedated, which is probably the most peace we're going to get from him for a while. You know that.”

Fury snorted indelicately. "Kid'll be back to reigning havoc and mischief in no time. But you only answered half of my question, asshole.”

Phil permitted a small smile to reach his face as he stopped outside the door to Barton's room. "I'm in one piece, Nick. Clint saw to that, the reckless sonofabitch." Fighting the urge to run a hand through his hair, Coulson sighed as he opened the door and stepped through into the archer's room. "Although I think you owe me a -- _damn it!_ "

"Coulson?"

"Nick, I'll call you back." Phil hung up without another word, taking in the sight of Barton's empty bed with a huff of concern.

 

* * *

 

Clint bit back a whimper as his weakened legs gave way beneath him despite the valiant effort he put into remaining upright. The slide to the floor was quick and painful, the wall both supporting his frame and reawakening the cuts, scrapes and abused muscles as he landed in a graceless heap on the cold, tiled floor.

Stealing a moment to catch his breath, Clint could feel the remnants of the sedatives as they moved sluggishly through his veins; the staccato beat of his heart exacerbating the thundering in his skull as he fought to chase away the dark spots clouding his vision. Clint knew he should be resting; knew that realistically he should still be semi-comatose in his hospital bed, but upon awakening to find his handler missing, the compulsion to track him down had taken hold and it wasn't something that Barton could fight. Not until he knew Coulson was safe.

If, along the way, Clint had somehow found himself inside the Hospital's Morgue, well...the opportunity to confirm Coulson's kill on the Williams kid wasn't one he could turn down either. Not when his own memories of the incident were currently a jumble of confusion, uncertainty and pain. He'd seen the kid hit the deck, of that he was certain, but his memory from that point on was refusing to cooperate and that left him unsettled.

Taking a deep breath, followed by another, Clint counted patiently to thirty before even considering the notion of moving again. Now that he'd stopped, the adrenaline that’d been keeping him mobile had worn off and his body had decided it was a good time to remind him that, in spite of what he sometimes thought, he wasn't superhuman and he hurt.

A lot.

Eyeing the sturdy cast on his ankle and the thick bandaging to his arm properly for the first time since he’d woken, Clint sensed that he had a lengthy recovery time ahead of him. Even with the mix of sedatives and painkillers in his system Clint could feel the scream of his fractured ankle and the relentless sting of damaged and exposed nerve endings from his arm above the many other aches and scrapes, cuts and bruises. Using his bow was going to be difficult, though not impossible, for the next few weeks at least, and Coulson would probably threaten to handcuff him to the first solid surface he could find if it meant Clint would allow his ankle enough time to heal before he forced himself back to active duty.

The next few weeks were going to suck.

Knowing he couldn't sit around feeling sorry for himself all day, Clint grit his teeth and prepared to move. Bracing his good arm against the wall, his attempt at dragging his aching frame upwards ended in failure as his body steadfastly refused to cooperate. As punishment for even trying, Clint's stomach chose its moment to rebel at the fresh wave of adrenaline and pain. It was all the archer could do not to empty the meagre contents of his stomach all over himself, turning his head to the left in time to decorate the floor at his side instead.

Screwing his eyes shut Clint groaned in disgust, allowing his head to thud gently against the wall as he struggled to fight the lightheadedness and exhaustion; nausea settling like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. Eyes closed, Clint convinced himself that he would rest for a few minutes before trying again, whilst stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the way that his body trembled and shook like a newborn kitten.

*

It wasn't until the soft hiss of an opening door that Clint startled back to awareness a few short minutes later, the scalpel once carefully concealed under his loose scrubs now gripped tight in his trembling fingers without conscious thought. The familiar yet uncharacteristically dishevelled figure of Phil Coulson gliding through the door reminded Clint that he needed to breathe and he swallowed another wave of nausea as he willed his racing heart to slow.

“Barton?”

Clint blinked stupidly in his handler's direction for a few long seconds before huffing out an exhausted sigh, the scalpel hitting the floor with a clatter as his arm tired itself out. “Hey, boss..." Clint's voice cracked painfully.

Phil lingered where he was for the moment, absorbing the sorry state of his asset and the mess he’d made of himself before scanning the rest of the room to check it was secure.

Clint regularly made a habit of escaping medical, so Phil really shouldn’t have been all that surprised to have discovered his empty bed, although this was the first time he’d tried it after falling 100 feet and then narrowly escaping with his life after being blown up - twice. Why Clint had felt the need to–

Coulson’s internal thoughts trailed off as his eyes came to rest upon the several covered gurneys in the room. One in particular, in the corner nearest to the door, drew his attention with its toe tag and lopsided clipboard.

Realisation dawned quickly.

Phil took a careful step toward his asset. “He is dead, you know.”

Barton frowned, running the words through his sluggish brain. It took longer than necessary for his handler’s words to make sense but then Clint snorted softly, blinking owlishly in Coulson’s direction.

“I know... _Now_. I know _now_ ,” Clint felt the need to clarify, his relief palpable as he shifted minutely to relieve the ache in his swollen knee. “But I needed to be sure.”

Phil sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Hawkeye had one of the sharpest minds in S.H.I.E.L.D. and yet Phil still struggled to follow the man's logic at times. “So you felt the urge to confirm this for yourself _now_? In spite of falling off a building only a few hours ago?”

Clint opened his mouth as if to explain, caught off guard by the bite to Phil's words, but Coulson was having none of it, the anger and frustration suddenly evident in the older man’s voice as he closed the gap between them. “I find you roaming the halls with a busted ankle, a sprained knee and –” Coulson eyed the mess to Clint’s left, “-a _concussion_ , no doubt. What exactly were you thinking, agent? _Were_ you even thinking?”

"Sir…” Clint dropped his gaze to the floor, no longer able to look his handler in the eye as he swallowed audibly. “I- You weren't there, and I... I panicked.”

Clint’s miserable admission was soft enough that Coulson struggled to hear it the first time. " _What?_ "

"You weren't there, Phil. You were gone and I - I thought..."

Shit.

" _Clint…_ ” Phil sighed, dropping to the floor at his agent's side and mirroring Barton's graceless sprawl. "I'm sorry. I made a promise after...after everything with Loki and the Alpha, and I messed up. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry."

Barton snorted softly, watching his exhausted handler from the corner of his eye. "No, sir, you're right. I'm the one that should be apologising. I shouldn't have disappeared like that-"

"Too right. You should be resting, Barton. That ankle isn't going to heal if you're walking on it. I don't even know how you managed to get this far as it is." Instead of taking the bait, Clint just nodded, neither of them willing to delve too far into the nightmare that was their recent history. The wince that followed reminded Clint that they were sitting on the cold floor of the Hospital's Morgue.

"C'mon, let's get you back to your room before the nurses report you as missing. I owe Fury a phone call." Phil climbed to his feet, smoothing down the creases in his jacket before giving it up as a lost cause. "And you owe me a new suit."

Clint grinned tiredly, holding out his good arm for Coulson to help him to his feet. Despite almost dying, the archer felt proud of what he'd achieved that day. He was alive and Phil was safe.

It was all that mattered.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look out for the prequel to Leap of Faith - Alpha - coming soon!


End file.
